Fiction QUINN’S ON THE porch. I can see him over Mum’s shoulder through the smudged vertical strip of glass next to the front door. Golden porchlights flicker and zip with midges and moths. Occasionally, his shifting shadow cuts off the...

FictionTogether we were drawn mechanically across the road, boredom/fate reeling us in. The lawn sprawled over the grey-brick kerb. The house was painted green. Sellotaped to the windows were rows of pressed aster. The feeling of something too large to explain was heavy in the air. The door squeaked, swinging open, the main door ajar behind it, and through the gap we glimpsed a white hallway, a pile of discarded shoes on one side.